In My Corner, My Thoughts
by NeoMiniTails
Summary: I love when he plays with my heart strings. Dedicated to Edhla.


**Dedicated:** Edhla. Your interludes got me into watching Sherlock. I also want to thank you for the many reviews you've given me.

Thanks.

**Author's Note: **My first non-anime story, and it's Sherlock, the BBC version. Can't say much about it without spoiling anything but please review, add to favorites, and subscribe to me.

This is my corner; no one's allowed to take it. They should know better because he placed me here and rumor has it that he's a dangerous man. Truth is, I know him better than anyone - no matter how well his companions think they know him.

They know nothing, not a single thing. I can proudly say that his touch has taught me everything I need to know about him, and when he plays with my heart strings, I can feel every desire, every sadness, every broken word that he can never say.

I'm always there for him, always have been even before the old woman showed up, years before the young attendant showed up. I'd been there for every argument and there, I had always been there to argue with the words he was afraid to say. Sherlock understands how much I care for him.

When he was lonely and unsure, he touched me and beat his intentions into me as he had always done. Some would say that our relationship is dangerous and that I should leave, but they don't know him the way that I know him. You should see people's faces when I'm wearing my black; I can see why my man sees them all as fools.

The only one I don't mind is his brother. I've known him as long as Sherlock, and he seems to understand me. Behind that snarly smile, that annoyed look in his eyes, he is the only one that sees me as a person as I am.

As much as I love Sherly, I think he forgets that I'm there. He forgets that I do not call his brother by name out of respect for him. I think I'll always be there for him, always work hard from my corner because he needs me.

It's always been that way even when he was a small child before he knew that I could express the things that he couldn't. During those times, I remember his tears so clearly and every night, he would come to me and though I didn't know what to say, he would feel so comfortable crying when he wouldn't even allow his mother or brother see him do such a thing.

Back then, he had just lost his father, the only person that understood him as much as I. Like him, he kept me in a corner similar to this one, but his touch was so different from his son's. When he played with my heartstrings, I felt joy and love - I felt a need to protect the ones that he loves. Sometimes, Sherlock's mom would get jealous because of the time that he spent with me. I don't blame her with my lovely reddish brown color and a voice tuned for the heavens.

It didn't matter that I was never one to say much at the dinner table or for that matter, to be invited. I was always able to watch them; I was always invited to be with the family even when the woman of the house didn't want me there. Funny, you'd think that she would be more appreciative of me as I was the one that brought them together.

When Sherlock's father was concerned what to say, afraid to be cliche, unable to sing, I was the one that handled it after he "handled" me. It was a simple request, and without even a second thought, he agreed. Sure, it sounds unconventional but in the end, it was me who put them together. I sung with all my heart, my soul practically broke, knowing that my singing this song would bring a woman into his world that would take a piece of the man I loved that I would never be able to get back.

Years later, my fears had come true, his father would touch me, but his thoughts were always on another woman. I would plead and beg for his attention, standing in my corner, wearing my black and watching from a distance. I would sit in their room just watching them and before you judge me as a stalker, he was the one that brought me into the marriage.

He was the one who brought me in.

When his wife was really feeling it, she would ask him to play with me when the kids had gone to bed. I remember the last time that he toyed with me like yesterday, it felt like a symphony, a song measured out in quarts but he was missing the other three that he used to play with before he had a family. Still, it felt so wonderful and beautiful; it was like the day that I brought him and his wife together, but this time, I would be used to end everything.

His touch felt so sad and with every stroke against my heart, I wanted to tell him to change the game. I didn't like this touch; no, I understood too much of what it meant.

I remember his wife cried and told him to stay home, but he left her and I at the door.

He never came home again. The police came that night, saying that a man had been shot to death. Later, it was found out that had I been able to get out of more corner more to earn him money, he'd probably been alive. I wanted to cry but couldn't.

He owed people money, and I was supposed to make that easier for him.

I tried to speak with the wife, tell her to play with me also, tell her that it would be okay, but back then, I was frozen in shock. My sleek black dress had been taken off by Mr. Holmes and in my shame, I stayed in my corner, naked.

It was like that for some time, and people walked past me with only tears in their eyes. My tanned skin was becoming a dirty ruddy color; it was no wonder that no one wanted to touch me. Did everyone blame me for his death?

Were they angry that I couldn't show up to his funeral? Maybe, they found me shameful for my nakedness.

I don't know what it was, but it was three years after Sherlock's father died that the youngest son had found me. You should've seen his face, this expression of shock and anger. He was so small, but he looked so mature. He promised me that he would some day touch me the way that his father did.

I silently laughed to myself. No one could do that.

And, I was right. He never did. No, he touched me in ways that I can never explain. Truth be told, whenever his brother saw what he did to me, I'm sure he was jealous. When his brother said to stop messing with me, I screamed at him and showed him why he could never be as great as Sherlock.

I told the young boy to hush and I'll speak for him. I loved doing that for him. Years later, I've always done the same thing for him. I just ask that he loves me, gives me his soul, and I'll say what he could never say.

I'll tell his brother that he loves him but is afraid to love too much because he loved his father too much. I'll keep telling his brother that he does what he does so that he could get over the anger of when it all ended. His brother will know, through my words, that he's okay even if he doesn't seem to appear that way.

And, he understands.

He's scared, but he understands.

I chuckle because he doesn't respond but always leaves when I speak .

The new man living here seems to slowly understand that I am as much apart of Sherlock as he is part of me. John is a good man as far as I can tell. He finds Sherlock interesting, and he listens to me sing, but I will never let him touch me.

No, he's not allowed to do that no matter how kind he seems. I don't think the Holmes family would appreciate their precious violin passed on from generations to generations to be touched by an unknown man such as him.

I wonder what song I will sing for Sherlock tonight. From what I hear, it's been two weeks since his last job. I love when he touches me out of frustration.

**Author's Note:** _Were you surprised by the ending?_


End file.
